Taking American School children to Lake Atitlan

When my two boys were finishing second and third grade, my Mother invited us to go with her on a trip to Lake Atitlan in Guatemala. I had always planned on traveling with my children, after all, I had loved every country I had ever visited, and I wanted them to have happy memories with their grandma too — so it was easy to say, "yes."

My husband was working and could not come at the time the trip was scheduled, and Mom signed us up to go with a group that would be building concrete houses in Santiago, Atitlan.

Now we are far from rich in American standards but I had travelled enough to know that we are very rich in the world view. My boys were sweet and friendly, but I knew that they took a lot for granted. If Dad and Mom could not afford a toy, then just asking a grandparent had a way of working out for them. The fact that our home only had one bathroom for the 4 of us, was not the norm in the homes they overnighted in. They could not really imagine a place where one concrete room and a shared water spigot in a common are might be considered a grand home.

So we flew from Portland, to Houston and waited in the airport for 7 hours to meet their granmother and my brother, their uncle Lance. Lance has Down's syndrome, but a real gift for making friends. As we flew to Guatemala City, and then went by bus to Panajachel, and spent the night in a walled school there, the beauty of the greenery balanced the poverty of shacks and litter and the boys were enthralled.

Then we got on a boat to Cross the volcano lined lake, and for a short distance even travelled a watery highway between "bullrushes." My older son loves all things water, and was excited by the boat and fascinated by the small fishing boats and single men standing up fishing in them. Neither boy was too eager to try their hand at washing theirclotes on the rocks that lined the lake but they were willing to stomp their clothing clean as they showered.

Our cabin was a luxurious stone and wood cabin at the Posada in Santiago. It was set in among Banana, fig, orchids, Dragonfruit and the kind of lushness I had only ever seen before in the Otrgon Coastal area. There were wonderful weavings and leatherwork and embroidery and woodcarvings.



but there was also poverty, and begging and children who did not attend school because they made things all evening to sell on the streets every day.

We had been warned not to approach children because no-one wanted to make their parents feel threatened by strangers, but with my handicapped brother's warm smile and my two friendly boys, the children flocked around us. At first they were shy and then they tried to beg from us, but in a couple days they were kicking soccer balls and playing blind man's bluff with my boys.

We did go to the work site and spent one day cutting re-bar and clearing rocks, but because the project had just finished one house and was not ready to begin the next, we were appologetically asked if we would mind visiting a school to volunteer instead.
Mind! It was the best thing that could have happened to us of course. Since I am a teacer and a storyteller and we had children with us, we were delighted at the opportunity. It could have been strange, neither the Mayan children in their clan weaving uniform, or my children seemed to notice that they did not speak the same language,
We sang each other songs and shared photographs of our ocean and redwoods and then gathered outside where my boys taught them "Duck, Duck, Goose" and they taught us "Cat and Mouse"

Then we shared lunch and smiles and it was all good. The children were Tzuitajil Mayan, but the school taught in Spanish. After lunch, they tried to teach us some Mayan phrases and the idea behind their base 12 math. It was wildly interesting and we were glad that the visit would continue more days.

When at last we had to climb aboard the boat to begin our trip home, a parade of children came to the docks with us and as the boat pulled away, they threw a rain of beaded bracelets and keychains into the boat and yelled, "Come back next year!"
We never made it back, or not yet, but it made an impact. My boys came home and signed up to support a Guatemalan boy and raised money to send him every month for three years, we read an intense book, by Sister Dianna ortiz, called "The Blindfold's Eyes" about another side of Guatemala's recent history. And eventually much of our experience is finding its way into the first two "Duffy Barkley" books as well.

Redwoods and Pacific of Del Norte (rhymes with snort here)

I moved to Del Norte county in 1989 and the very first thing I learned here, was that "Del Norte" rhymes with "Snort." Or they laugh, not just at you, but also at themselves for insisting on it.A beautiful county, in cold and rainy territory, there are a lot of rugged, unpopulated areas, and a lot of sad and tragic history in Del Norte. But there is also a strength and courage in those who live here, and a sense of unity in living in this "solar-free zone" where gills develop if you choose to stay. We are the forgotten county. You have to drive South for 6 or 7 hours to reach "Northern California." and we rank fairly horribly on a lot of scales, in the bottom of all CA counties for poverty, drug use, teen-age mom's, child-abuse. Yet there is hope and love in the beauty and the people here.
Battery Point Lighthouse is a beacon of hope and a recognized symbol of the county, and a delightful, but crazy place to gather around bonefires and watch the fireworks exploding everywhere on the 4th of July.



Margaret Keating school In Klamath has reconstructed the native plank homes and shows a living and growing

Yurok and Tolowa culture. This in-spite of near extermination and a time when hunting Indians was legal.

Wonderstump Road, used to be a rail line for the logging company and now is a cool, green hallway lined with a regrouth that hints at the primal forest which once grew here. The Redwoods could also have been victims of extermination but finally some people cared enough to preserve some for their children's children.

The Pacific has provided richly for this area, and in turn attacked with a killer tsunami in 1964. There has been incredible fishing and tragic ship wrecks and a life on the edge of balance here. The Sea truly takes and gives.
My home, still contains a few of the stumps for which Wonderstump was named and is close to both the freezing, but beautiful Pacific and the mysterious, prehistoric feeling Redwoods.

Several movies have been filmed in this area, Parts of the ewok scenes, Jurassic Park 2, ET, and "Darby O'Gill and the little people."

It may not be a perfect place, but it hasbeen perfect for me.

Bearing the Load, in Guatemala

Bearing the Load, on the Shores of Lake Atitlan in Guatemala, is something that the Mayan and Spanish descendants have done for centuries. But they do it with a smile.

When I usually think of backpacking, I often think of it as a recreational activity, a pleasant escape from the burdens of the work-a-day world. The people that I saw in Guatemala simply did pack things on their back, if they were male, or on their hear if they were female. Not ultra light loads but bundled firewood and multiple gallons of water, in a town on the slopes of a volcano where nothing is ever flatland.
I look at what I have to carry; a three gallon bucket of water to fill my aquarium, about 20 steps from the water faucet, 10 times; forty pound bags of dog-food, a load of firewood, with a wheelbarrow, from the edge of the yard to my front door. Not long ago, I balanced two 30 pound toddlers on my hips.

Beyond that, I reach for my car keys and moan when I have to make several trips from the drive way to my kitchen with an abundance of fresh groceries. I scoop up my fat cat and carry her to a lawn chair and curl up with a fresh coffee and a good book.


Not that an American, mother of teenagers, lives a burden free life, but my burdens are often the ones that weigh down my mind and spirit with worries of things that never happen. They do not exercise my legs and keep my back erect.

Watching the grace and acceptance as a child lifts firewood onto her head is a humbling experience for me. Looking at the beautiful, handwoven clothing with the Mayan tribal traditions in every thread, remembering that Santiago, Atitlan has suffered massacres and devastating mudslides. I am again amazed at the ringing laughter and the broad, gold-toothed smiles. The one thing these pictures cannot show is the smell of fresh fruit all around, the dragonfruit trees and avacado trees and banana plants that grace the roads and homes where these people live each day.

Rock-a-Doodle-Do!

I have a stash of essential supplies that go along with me whenever I get the chance to spend the day at the beach or the river. Of course, I have sun screen an a swim suit, a water bottle and Big's Dill Pickle Sunflower seeds. I take a towel and a pair of river sandals, and my favorite book of the moment, burt I never go without my camera and a bundle of sharpies.You know that early people were big on leaving their stories behind, on the walls of stone canyons and in caves. These pictographs capture our imagination, and link us in a very human way to our ancestors. Now, considered historical treasures, in some ways they served the same purpose as graffiti does today. They were a creative expression, a way to record the fact that someone had been here, a way to communicate a thought or idea to someone who would come later.

Once I was walking in the forest by Oregon Caves, and i found a circle of painted stones. each bore a blue sky, one or two yellow suns and the white silhouette of an animal. It made me stop in delight and I smile still at the memory.

The strange thing though, was years later, on the coast of Gold Beach, I found more of the same in another circle. By then, I realized that I wanted to make people smile and wonder too. So when I am watching my family swim, or when my book does not hold my interest, I grab the sharpies and doodle whatever comes to my mind. I never sign my name and sometimes after I have scattered the drawings, I see someone else discover them, and listen to the comments and say not a word.
In some cases I find one that has been left behind, and the picture will be almost faded away, like a ghost of a former self. And once or twice, I have been caught in the act by children, who, with their parents permission, eagerly share my markers and create their own rock art.

Now that I look at stones all the time, I realize some of them already have their own pictures, and it is those I most enjoy discovering. See the couple up above? She's waving at you.

Where the Buffalo Roam

I was in grade school when our music teacher first taught us to sing the line, "Oh give me a home where the buffalo roam, and the deer and the antelope play." It was a song that described where I lived, and as young as I was, I still was old enough to know that not everyone was as lucky as I. My Great Grandparents had moved to live in the location that would become Cody, Wyoming and the family had stayed there, so living in the town, named after Buffalo Bill, I grew up knowing that my great-grandfather had driven the stage that delivered the cherrywood bar from the train in RedLodge Montana to the Hotel named after Buffalo Bill's daughter, Irma, when the Queen of England sent it as a gift. I knew about The Wild west Show and idolized Annie Oakley and laughed at My Great Grandmother's stories of dancing with Buffalo Bill when they'd had a bit too much too drink.

But I loved the Buffalo and had a difficult time imagining the massive slaughter's of these incredible animals at the hands of anyone with a heart. So I grew up most thankful for the people who had the foresight to set aside a refuge and to reverse the decimation of the species.
I truly loved the native American stories of the white buffalo, but never thought i'd be blessed enough to see one until the time when I took my family to Custer, South Dakota where we got to see Miracle Moon. This is not my picture but an image is available at http://www.pbase.com/image/63226173
The best and worst summer of my life was when I was a Newleywed and my husband and i were working 18 hour days at the Black Hills Playhouse in Custer State Park. During that emotional time we lived with the buffalo in a whole new way. we stepped in buffalo droppings, woke to see buffalo noses pressed to our bedroom window, found buffalo hair in the bushes around our cabin. The most memorable night, we got off work at one in the morning, on a night with no moon. We had to walk up a gravel drive to the condemned cabin we lived in, which would be torn down as soon as we moved out. I was using the crunch of gravel under my feet to tell me if I was still on the road when I heard a snort like steam rushing out of a locomotive. A black wall rose in front of me as the bull I had nearly stepped rose to his feet, and up on the hill a mountain lion screamed like a woman in pain. Somehow i managed to back away, and find my way around and home - but I didn't sleep much that night, and bought a flashlight the next day.

After all, I had seen those shaggy heads, tear down a tree just by scratching between their ears.